Mr. Carter laughed. “Rural delivery will come one day, Mrs. Rochester, and you will get your mail right to your door daily. See if you don’t!”
I set the batch of letters to one side. They could wait, but Mr. Carter could not. His services were much in demand. “How are we today, sir?”
“I wish I had better news for you. But Mr. Rochester’s vision continues to decline.” The doctor pointedly stared into his teacup rather than engage me. It is a game he plays. Mr. Carter tries to keep the worst from me, and I respond by working harder to pry it out of him. He thinks me too young and delicate to bear up under this adversity. I think he underestimates me. In fact, I know he does. It is a common mistake.
“Are you certain? Is there nothing you can do?”
“I have done all I can, but I encourage you not to give up hope. I suggest that Mr. Rochester visit an oculist in London. I have located one who has an astonishing success rate.”
“We shall pack our bags immediately!”
“Not just yet, my darling. Carter thinks we should wait,” said Edward, putting a staying hand on my knee. “He thinks that if I rest properly, some healing might occur. The oculist would be a last resort.”
“More to the point,” Carter interjected, “I prescribe hot compresses twice daily. And no strenuous activity. For several days at least.”
I put on my best smile and tried to sound cheery. Instead, I heard myself prattle on and on. “So, my husband, you must let me devote myself entirely to you and your comfort. I shall start by warming your tea and serving you scones. Mr. Carter, may I offer you more refreshments, too?”
“That would be most welcome. But I cannot stay long. I need to hurry back in the direction of Millcote. The Farrows’ youngest son has a touch of the croup. It makes the rounds of the countryside faster than I do. I promised I would stop in on my way home.” He frowned at the sky. “Perhaps I will be forced to spend the night with them. A storm appears to be moving in. When the clouds cover the moon, the roads are too dark for a lone traveler to journey safely. Especially with highwaymen about.”
The talk then drifted from the weather to politics. Eventually that led to a discussion of the ongoing adultery trial of Queen Caroline, wife of King George IV, who had ascended the throne when his father died that past January.
“The masses are supportive of her. After all, our King was the most dissolute of all princes,” Mr. Carter said with a disapproving shake of his head.
Few thought Queen Caroline innocent, but since her husband publicly cavorted with his mistresses, many found it difficult to blame her for seeking comfort in the arms of another man. Even at this distance from London, we had heard how her daily processionals to the trial aroused sympathy.
“It is shameful,” my husband said, “how the King has lived a life of pleasure and excess while many of his subjects starve because of the low price of corn. The common folks identify with her and repudiate him—and with good reason.”
The subject of crops changed the course of conversation. I sorted the mail and listened carefully as Mr. Carter reported sadly on the general condition of farmers in the area. Pauperism in the counties was a very real problem. The local landowners feared a revolt, much like the French had suffered, so they met regularly to share their views and to try to find methods for reducing unemployment and the more general discontent.
“Is there a letter from Adèle?” Edward asked me after a while, likely seeking a break from such dismal news.
“I am looking. Surely this bundle will include a note from her.”
For a short time before our marriage, unhappy circumstances had caused me to take my leave of Edward. My absence had left then eight-year-old Adèle without a governess. Considering the girl’s overly dramatic nature and her chaotic early upbringing, Edward decided she would benefit from a traditional English education. He asked his friends for recommendations. Mrs. Lucy Brayton, the wife of Edward’s dearest friend, Captain Augustus Brayton, suggested the Alderton House School for Girls, in London.
Once Edward and I were reunited, we did not have time to fetch her back from London before the wedding, which we conducted hastily before a parson and a clerk, not even telling John and Mary until it was done. I did not like to be fussed over—it suited me to have been married in that way. Afterward, Edward and I sent out notice of our marriage. We received back several polite letters of congratulations from his business associates, a letter expressing happy surprise from my cousins Diana and Mary Rivers—and an exuberant missive from Lucy Brayton petitioning us newlyweds to come to London to visit her “for the whole of the Season.”
We took extra care with our letter to Adèle, explaining our new situation and assuring her of Edward’s affection and mine. We planned to visit her as soon as possible.
We also sent a letter to the school’s superintendent, Mrs. Webster, and that kind soul replied that she wished us many long years of happiness.
Although it had been our intention to visit Adèle immediately after our wedding, I became enceinte within days. Complications of my condition, punctuated by frequent upheavals in the basin, rendered travel impossible, at least in those early months. Before we knew it, a brutal winter was upon us. Snowdrifts piled high against our doorway. The road to Ferndean, always a challenge, became impassible. We were housebound for the duration of the winter, spending the long, dark days huddled in front of the fire. In the uncertain light of the coals, I would read to Edward and sometimes to Mrs. Fairfax while her knitting needles provided a steady clicking accompaniment to my voice. The tangy smoke from the logs on the hearth hallowed our evenings with a pleasant haze, putting me in mind of incense at church.
This period of enforced solitude proved a blessing, as Edward still suffered the aftermath of the conflagration, his damaged but noble presence reminding me of that majestic oak tree at Thornfield that had been rendered nearly in two by a bolt of lightning. Despite the damage, the tree survived, tentatively putting out one sprout and then the next as if testing its vitality, until finally it succeeded in producing a verdant canopy of sheltering leaves, a wholly pleasing result. The oak was never the same, but its new form still struck me with admiration at its tenacity and virility.
Through the long winter nights, my belly grew, and Edward’s spirit flourished, imbued with expectation and anticipation. Slowly, his maimed stump healed, as did his remaining eye, but his vision never quite recovered.
Thankfully, the last of the winter’s snow melted and the lane was passable in time for the midwife to attend me when I delivered Ned. He arrived hale and pink with plump and perfect little limbs, but the birth was arduous, and afterward, I was slow to regain my former vitality. Still, the months passed with Ned growing and thriving, and over the summer the color came back to my cheeks. By the first chill of autumn, my clothes no longer hung loosely on me and a shine returned to my hair. In my husband’s presence, Mr. Carter pronounced me fit, but the good doctor warned me in private that I needed to gain back several pounds. “You are far too thin, ma’am,” he said as he shook his finger at me. “You need to eat more and take meals with regularity.”
Throughout my convalescence, I sent letters to Adèle, signing them with my name and guiding Edward to sign his. But since Ned’s birth, her responses have proved confounding! She made no mention of congratulations, nor did she seem excited about the arrival of our baby.
“I fear the girl has mastered the fine art of a Gallic pout. She learned it at her mother’s knee,” was Edward’s summation. Although we pretended otherwise, we were both hurt.
Many weeks had passed since her last letter. All of her correspondence left us disappointed. We wanted news of how she was getting along, letters that evoked her sense of gaiety and drama. Instead, we received nothing more than a scribbled sentence or two, usually a weather report and a bland recitation of what she was studying. It lacked every evidence of Adèle’s usual ebullience. In fact, each letter so strongly resembled the one before that I began to sus
pect the child was copying a lesson from a blackboard rather than penning her own missive to us.
Fortunately, Mrs. Brayton had visited Adèle often, and her amusing letters brimmed over with how the child looked, what new songs she favored, and so on.
Every fresh batch of letters brought hope that Adèle would congratulate us on Ned’s arrival, and each left my heart aching with disappointment. I didn’t care about the new poem she memorized or the psalm she could recite by heart. I wanted to hear about Adèle’s feelings. I loved the little French girl—how could I not, seeing how her situation was so much like mine had been—and the time I spent out of contact with her had been one of the most painful of my life.
I shuffled through the stack, searching for her familiar scrawl.
“It is here!” I opened it quickly and read the letter out loud, heedless of Mr. Carter’s presence:
Dearest Mr. and Mrs. Rochester,
I study very hard. I say my prayers every night and day. I am learning simple mathematics. My Latin and Italian have improved. I hope to master German as we are to have a new teacher.
Yours faithfully,
Adèle Varens
“Is that all?” Edward asked.
I stared hard at the careless script before turning the letter on its side. Using my finger as a pointer, I traced the letters, hoping to discern the word written crosswise over her short message, a method of communication I myself had often used to save money on postage.
By careful examination I was able to make out one phrase in French repeated three times:
Au secours! Au secours! Au secours!
“She begs for help!” I translated.
“She has always been a fanciful child,” Edward spoke slowly.
“That is true.” But the excuse sounded weak, even to my own ears. However, I persisted with it. “Do you recall how she would feign illness when I assigned Latin translations to her? She is quite the scamp.”
“I had hoped this school would encourage her to be more…British. But even so, this is unlike her,” my husband mused.
“The message does seem quite desperate,” agreed Mr. Carter.
“There is more,” I said. A scrap of watercolor paper fluttered to the ground as I unfolded her note. “Perhaps this will offer an explanation.”
But that wretched scrap only made the situation worse. On it was scrawled: God rot your filthy soul. You will die! I will see to it! Avec plaisir!
The three of us sat in stunned silence.
I turned to my husband. “We must go to her at once!”
Chapter 2
“Someone has threatened Adèle? No more harmless will-o’-the-wisp ever graced this good earth. This is hard to credit, and we cannot let it go.” My husband pounded the tea table with his fist. The cups danced and a jostled spoon flew off the tray and onto the ground. “What child could have written that vile note? That dastardly threat?”
A moment’s reflection set me wondering. “Mr. Rochester, I am not sure it was written by another person. The handwriting is unfamiliar, but it is unsigned. It could be an intrigue. Perhaps this is a bid for attention. Such a scheme would not be beyond Adèle’s contrivance.”
What I did not admit to was the possibility that it was not another child at all, but someone in authority. I knew the school environment; I knew it well, both as student and as teacher. I had seen the petty cruelties inflicted on schoolchildren, and I knew them to spring from twin fountainheads of preening self-righteousness and unearned moral superiority. Those in authority justified false economies and capricious acts of discipline all in the name of “saving souls.” They acted as judge and jury, pushing God off his throne so they could sit there in His stead. At their hands, and according to their whims, children with no one to speak on their behalf could suffer.
I also knew, however, that Lucy Brayton had recommended the Alderton House School for Girls to Edward, so I trusted it was well run. She knew of the superintendent, Mrs. Webster, and vouched for the woman’s character. However, these messages from Adèle set me wondering.
“I suppose it is possible this is all some sort of an intrigue…” Edward began.
Mr. Carter nodded vigorously. “I have two daughters myself. The whispering, the fights, the making up. Well, it keeps Mrs. Carter and me quite busy. Perhaps the girl is lonely, and the second note is but a bid to force you to pay her attention.”
“Is there any other mail? Perhaps a letter from Mrs. Webster, the superintendent? Something that might explain Adèle’s plea?” Edward leaned toward me, straining to see.
“Here’s one from Lucy Brayton. We haven’t heard from her in a while.” I unfolded the paper quickly and started to read:
Dear Edward and Jane,
I returned from Bombay last Monday to discover the letter I’d written the two of you still sitting on my dresser! It appears that I forgot to mail it! Oh heavens, I would misplace my head if it were not melded to my body! Could it be that six months have gone by without us corresponding?
Well, it was a short note, so I shall recap its contents. Augie had sent me an urgent message requesting that I go to him in Bombay. Seems he’d contracted malaria, and he wanted me for a nurse. (I can imagine you laughing at the absurdity of that, Edward! However, since he rarely asks for my presence, I felt much obliged to hasten to his side.) So I threw my clothes into trunks and took the next ship bound for India.
By the time I disembarked, he was much improved, although the fever came and went, leaving him quite spent. Despite Augie’s illness (or possibly because of it, since I—like the fever!—was free to come and go as I pleased) I enjoyed my time there. I bought your new bride a beautiful gift!
To make amends and work my way back into your good books—for I truly meant to mail that letter so you would know I was out of the country!—I decided to visit Alderton House immediately. My intention was to send you a full report on Adèle.
Well, you will scarcely credit this, but when I arrived, I was turned away at the door by a large woman with a face like curdled milk. She introduced herself as one Maude Thurston, the new superintendent. It seems that Mrs. Webster has retired!
I was told that the girls were in their lessons. I replied to Mrs. Thurston that I was confident Adèle could miss a few minutes of her lesson without incurring a great disaster to her education, but the woman would not budge. Finally, I retreated. I came again on the next day at a different time. I was told that Adèle couldn’t see me because she was being disciplined. Again, this sour-faced harridan and I argued. I even invoked the name of Lady Kingsley, the founder of that institution. To no avail.
You know me well, Edward. Augie once likened me to a mad dog. Once I sink my teeth in, I absolutely refuse to let go. I waited two days and traveled again to Alderton House.
Mrs. Thurston told me quite coolly that my visits were ill timed. I told her that if she did not produce Adèle on the spot I would take myself to the local constabulary and complain. You can imagine how unhappy my threat made her!
At length, she fetched Adèle.
I tell you, the child’s appearance shocked me. She has always been slight, but now her shoulders stick out at sharp angles. Her pale skin shows no hint of good health. I asked her how she fared, and she answered, “I am fine. I am happy here. I work hard to be a good student.” Of course, Mrs. Thurston glared at both of us during this exchange.
Recognizing I could learn little more, I took my leave, but before I went, Adèle threw her arms around me and whispered in my ear, “I am unhappy! Where is mon bon ami? Ask him to come rescue me!”
I suggest you come visit me sooner rather than later. Bring your lovely bride. I shall take her to all the best places in London!
Yours sincerely,
Lucy Brayton
“Jane, after this letter, I agree with you wholeheartedly. We must see this for ourselves. If Adèle is unhappy, we need to know why. If the school is rigorous, then her discomfort is part of her education. However, if she is being m
istreated, I shall not abide it.” Edward’s face transformed into a mask of anger. “I remember the way the upper form treated us new boys at Eton.”
I knew of these memories. He had shared them with me. His days at school were nearly as bleak and lonely as mine, except for the friendship he had formed with Augustus Brayton. As both were second sons, the two boys had been cast adrift, left to their own devices. They endured all sorts of indignities, chief among these being unreasonable punishments designed to assault the spirit as well as leave bloody markings on the body.
“We meant to visit Adèle,” I said, when I regained control of myself. “And to see Lucy Brayton in London. This only adds urgency to our plans.” With that, I tucked the two letters into my pocket.
Adèle’s misery could not be ignored, but as for the threat, it might be a simple schoolgirl quarrel taken to an extreme. Perhaps Adèle had written the second threatening note herself, as a way of insuring our immediate response. If so, I would endeavor to uncover what caused her to sink so low as to perform that odious vice. If not, I could take appropriate actions to see that the true author received a reprimand.
Mr. Carter had been quietly sipping his tea and nibbling at one of the spicy gingerbread biscuits that Mary baked for us weekly. “Allow me to assist you. I would be happy to take Mrs. Rochester to the Farrows’ house this evening, where we can spend the night. The next morning, I will drive to Millcote, where you can be a guest at my own home until you can secure passage at the coaching inn. I believe their carriages leave for London daily, but I am unfamiliar with their schedule.” He checked his pocket watch. “If we leave directly, we should make it to the Farrows’ in time for supper.”
“I shall go pack our things, Edward.” I jumped to my feet.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Rochester? Perhaps you misheard,” said Mr. Carter. “If one of you must travel immediately, then I offer to take you, Mrs. Rochester, but you alone. As I have warned, Mr. Rochester cannot travel at this moment. If you do not rest your eye, sir, at least for a few days, you will go blind.”
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 3
